The Reality of War, The Illusion of Life
by RiverOwl128
Summary: AU. In 1980, the course of history was altered when Severus Snape heard the full contents of the prophecy, thus Voldemort never met his downfall. How will this turn of events affect the lives of all those who might not have survived otherwise?
1. Whispers in the Dark

**Summary:** AU. In 1980, the course of history was altered when Severus Snape heard the full contents of the prophecy, thus Voldemort never met his downfall. How will this turn of events affect the wizarding world and the lives of countless people who might not have survived otherwise?

**Disclaimer: **I, of course, own nothing. I am merely bending characters and situations created by J.K. Rowling to my will.

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**Chapter One: Whispers in the Dark**

Pain.

Of course, he was used to pain, but that didn't make it any more enjoyable.

He did not know whether it was night or day; he had lost track of all time. His world seemed to be full of just darkness and suffering. But he had a reason to keep going, to fight his way through this. He knew he would survive, because he had to. There was no other way.

He drew some sort of bizarre courage from the knowledge that he had brought this on himself. This was his own choice, and he was glad to do it, for there was no one else who could have made it look convincing, no one else who possessed the tools that would keep him alive now that he was here … and if he didn't make it out, he was the only one who didn't have a family that would miss him. This was his job, and he was perfect for it.

The Death Eater standing over him cast his spell again and again, causing his body to convulse with the sting of it; he could barely breathe, and each breath he managed to take seemed to get stuck in his throat and only made his agony ten times worse.

'I think that's enough, Yaxley,' said a disdainful voice. 'You don't want our latest captive to perish before he even makes it before the Dark Lord, do you? Any more and we may as well have never have caught him, he'll be good for nothing, and our plans will never reach fruition.'

Yaxley lowered his wand, albeit reluctantly.

'Yes, I suppose you're right,' he said softly. He bent over the captive man and rolled him on to his back, getting a good look at his face. The prisoner could barely see out his swollen and bloody eyes, but he was able to make out the dark shape that was Yaxley's fist being brought back, then suddenly hammered into the captive's abdomen. Yaxley laughed as the prisoner doubled up, winded, cowering on the floor.

'I said that's enough, Yaxley!' the second Death Eater reminded him, his voice harsh and severe. Yaxley stood up and moved away, his face dark and sullen.

If the prisoner had thought that the second Death Eater would be more compassionate towards his well-being, he was sadly mistaken. The Death Eater kicked the prisoner hard in the mouth, and laughed loudly, a horrible, gloating, callous laugh, that rang around the prisoner's ears as he spat out blood and teeth, as he was bound by tight ropes conjured from a wand, and as he was dragged away from this room.

His captors now were not Death Eaters. They were some other cronies of the Dark Lord's, less powerful and not important enough to reach the Inner Circle. They were the Pickets, and it was in their control that the Death Eaters placed their latest detainee. They warned the Pickets that they would be back for him, and that the Dark Lord was sure to want an audience with him.

And now he was being dragged down many stone steps. His body was so battered and bruised that each step felt as though is might kill him, yet on some level he was strangely detached from the pain, detached from his body.

They were about to enter the deepest depths of the castle, where few were taken and where none returned. The air smelt stagnant and stale, and the atmosphere became instantly as cold as ice.

'Wait a minute would ya Croxford, I got another one 'ere! They can go down together!'

The voice rang through the silence, and the Picket holding the prisoner stopped and waited for the owner of the voice to catch up. It was accompanied by the jangling sound of chains

'This one's just come out of solitary,' said the newcomer, giving his own prisoner a kick behind the knees for good measure. The man buckled and fell to his knees, but immediately picked himself back up again; the shackles around his wrists and ankles making that a harder job than it would otherwise be. 'Ooo, whatcha got there, Croxford? Fresh meat?'

'Yeah,' said Croxford, nudging his bound prisoner with his foot. 'He's already been here a couple o' days though, they only just finished with 'im! Don't he look a state? Still, best get 'em back down where they belong! Scum!' Croxford spat on the floor. Together the two men dragged and pushed their captives down steep stone steps in near total darkness; it was impossible for the prisoners to look at each others faces. When they had reached as far down as they could go they proceeded along a labyrinth of narrow corridors, freezing and dirty and soulless. There were no windows here. It was hard to tell whether this was because they were so deep inside, at the furthest point from the outer walls, or whether it was because they had descended so far that they must surely be in the dungeons, or even in the rock beneath them. There was no sound available to the human ear except for the scuffling of the feet of the Pickets and their prisoners. Every surface seemed to be coated with dust and grime, and the smell of the air was even worse down here; it was almost like rotting flesh … like death.

With the jangling of keys and the scraping of a heavy door it seemed they had reached their destination. The silence that had been so deafening a few moments before was suddenly punctuated every few seconds by a strangled cry, a whispering voice, and, somewhat oddly, loud snores. _This must be where the other prisoners are kept_, thought the bound prisoner. They were taken down a long corridor lined with doors on either side. _Cells_. The unknown guard deposited his prisoner in a cell on the left side of the corridor and it was only after the door was securely locked shut that the Picket waved his wand through the small square of bars, set at head height into the solid door, so that the mans shackles disappeared.

'Where should I put this one, Scabior?' asked Croxford, indicating the bound and gagged man at his feet.

'Ah I dunno, this one's free, just shove 'im in there! It don't really matter,' replied the other Picket, Scabior. He indicated a cell on the right side of the corridor, directly opposite the one where they had left their other prisoner.

He was dragged into the middle of the cell, and again only after they had locked the door did the Pickets release him from his bonds. His limbs fell limply at his sides, and only now did he realise how much the ropes had been restricting his ribcage, although of course the pain still racked his body when he breathed. He could now hear the retreating footsteps of his captors, their voices raised in cruel laughter at the two men they had just left behind. The initial moment of shock had passed, and it was only now that, amongst the rest of his pain, he felt his heart sink like a deadened weight.

It took a moment to realise that someone was speaking to him.

'Hello? Hello? Are you alright over there?'

It was the other prisoner, calling to him from the cell across the corridor.

'Can you hear me?'

With a great effort, the injured prisoner rolled himself onto his chest, and slowly, half crawling, half pulling himself along the floor, made his way to the door, where a row of bars ran from one side of the door to the other, about a foot tall in height. Lying on the floor, he peered out, but could not make out anything in the total darkness that engulfed them both.

'Yes,' he replied, his voice hoarse. 'Yes I can hear you.'

'Good, I was worried you were unconscious or something,' came the reply. The voice sounded young, but unfamiliar. 'Are you badly hurt?'

'I'll live,' he replied grimly. The pain was still there, sharp and unyielding, but he knew he'd been through worse; this wasn't about to kill him. There was a slight pause, then he asked, 'who are you? Where am I?' The second question was quite unnecessary; he already knew where he was but it seemed … almost _rude_ … to bluntly ask the identity of a fellow prisoner.

'My name is Bill Weasley,' said the voice. He did not answer the second question, but instead asked urgently 'who are you? Do you know me? Do you know my family? Are they alright?'

_Bill Weasley_. 'Yes, I know your family, but not you. I worked as a teacher at Hogwarts a couple of years ago, I taught your brothers and sister. To the best of my knowledge, they are all fine, your parents too.'

The relief was evident in Bill's voice as he enquired 'you worked at Hogwarts? What did you teach?'

'Defence Against the Dark Arts. Only for a year, obviously, but definitely a memorable one. Your brothers give everyone quite the run-around, you know.'

Bill sighed softly, 'yes, yes they always have done. But what other news is there from the outside world? What's it like now?'

'Well, it has deteriorated quite badly over the past couple of years. Ireland and Western Europe are becoming more and more unstable as well. We barely have a hold over the Ministry of Magic anymore, and it is only because of Dumbledore that Hogwarts is still safe. Security measures aren't working, and people keep asking when there will be a blow against Voldemort, yet most are too afraid to help those of us still working hard to bring him down.'

'You're working to bring him down? You must be in Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix! Who are you, what's your name? How did you come to be in here?' asked Bill excitedly.

'There … was a fight. We tried to ambush a group of Death Eaters at a secret meeting point, but unfortunately, I was taken prisoner.' He was impressed at how fast Bill was keeping up. 'My name…' he paused, 'is Remus Lupin.'

There was a sharp intake of breath.

'Are you really?'

Bill didn't know what to say. It wasn't that Remus was anyone famous or important, it was … something entirely unexpected.

'Yes, I am. Why does that shock you?'

'It's … well, I'm not really sure I have the right to tell you. I've heard all the stories about you - I mean,' Bill sighed; he was doing this all wrong. 'Not bad stories, its just … well it's going to be a bit of a shock for you …'His voice drifted off. 'I can't tell you. You'll find out in the morning.'

Remus was frowning. What stories? What was going to be a shock? 'Bill,' he began fiercely, but before he could say another word, he was cut off.

'No, it would take too long, and I'm not the right person to explain everything to you. You should get some sleep now while you can. We'll have to be up in a few hours and then we won't get the chance to rest all day I should imagine. Those bloody Pickets work us hard.' Bill's voice became more muffled as he moved away from the bars on his door, signalling the conversation was over.

And so Remus was left to his confused and tired thoughts. He could make neither head nor tail of what Bill had just told him, and he was obviously not going to get any answers tonight. He struggled to pick himself up off the hard, cold stone and felt his way around his cell. It was tiny, probably only six square feet in size, completely enclosed and pitch black. There was a narrow wooden bench at the back that was clearly supposed to act as a bed, although there were, of course, no blankets or covers. It was with a heavy heart that Remus sat himself down, curled into a tight ball and shut his eyes tight, wishing he were anywhere else in the world, as far away from this pain and misery as possible. What was he doing here? Nothing could be worth this, nothing. This and other thoughts rolled round and round his very disturbed mind. But just before he succumbed to the crushing darkness and the pull of sleep that had been threatening him for hours, maybe even days, he heard a distant voice whisper:

'Welcome to Azkaban, Remus Lupin.'

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**Authors Note: **Congratulations to any readers who made it this far. This is the first chapter to a little story I have had running around my head for a while now. I expect it to go on for quite a while, until I run out of storyline or I get bored, whichever comes first! I would of course appreciate it if you could review, let me know what you thought. Any mistakes I made? Any ways in which I could improve this? Any ideas as to what's coming next, or what should come next? Always glad to have feedback. I think I'm going to rate this quite highly for the use of language and violence that's yet to come, probably the equivalent of a UK rating of 15. Stay tuned for the next chapter, which I hopefully might start writing tomorrow! 


	2. Unravelling Mysteries

**The Reality of War, The Illusion of Life**

**Chapter Two: Unravelling Mysteries**

A small oil lamp suddenly burst into flame above the door in Remus's cell. The flickering light was dim and cast but a shadow around the small cell. Through the bars on his door, Remus could see that similar lamps in the passageway outside his cell had also lit up, their light dancing, laughing almost mockingly at him and his predicament.

Remus has spent his first night as a prisoner huddled uncomfortably on his bench, his body pressed into a corner. He hadn't slept. Now, in what he supposed must be early morning (for of course there were no windows to see out of to check the progress of the sun, if such a celestial figure even existed on this god-forsaken rock), he finally stirred. His muscles protested at the change; they were sore from being stuck in a cramped position during the night, not to mention from the almost (for Remus at least) unimaginable pain he had experienced during his torture over the past couple of days.

A loud clicking told Remus that his door had been unlocked. He unfolded his limbs and stood up, running his hands over his tired face and greying hair. He stood by his door with some trepidation, wondering what was waiting for him outside. But he was no coward, or so he tried to remind himself. He could hear noises of other people moving and, from a little way away, harsh shouts. Taking a deep breath he opened his door; it was heavy and scraped loudly on the stone floor. Outside stood a small number of men, in a straight line and looking dead ahead. Their robes were a uniform grey and were generally worn and baggy. Remus stood there in a daze; not even looking at the men's faces … their features.

'Get in line,'

The words came in barely a whisper. Remus jerked back into himself and looked quickly around for the source. But the prisoners remained staring steadfastly ahead, giving no indication as to who had spoken.

'Quickly!'

A redheaded man made a small step backwards, allowing for a gap in the line. _This must be Bill Weasley_, thought Remus, knowing the Weasley trait of red hair. He stepped in front of Bill just in time; a heavy-faced Picket was walking down the row of men, counting and checking each prisoner, occasionally whispering to those he seemed to particularly dislike. He smirked when he reached Remus, taking in his dishevelled appearance, the lines on his face and the grey in his hair. The Picket took a deep breath and spat squarely in Remus' face. The spittle ran down his face, but Remus made no move to wipe it away; indeed he did not even shift his gaze from the shaved head of the man in front of him. The Picket laughed o himself and carried on down the line, eventually he gave the signal to another Picket at the front, and they started to walk.

They marched silently along the corridor and up the stairs Remus had been dragged down just a few hours previously. They took a different route from here though, and soon they were in a long, stone chamber with a low ceiling. Two wooden tables ran most of the length of the room. The men sat themselves at one of the tables, looking neither at each other, nor at any other feature in the room. Remus found himself intensely curious about his surroundings and his fellows, but instincts told him that this was not the time to draw attention to himself in any way, so he sat and stared at the wooden grain of the table like the rest of the men.

More people were entering the chamber from another door. Remus chanced a glance out of the corner of his eye and saw that these people were women, and that there were significantly less of them than the men, perhaps only five or six. They too were seated at their table.

The Pickets meanwhile were delivering bowls to each prisoner: chipped and dirty bowls half-filled with a sticky substance the colour of cement, each with a bent and discoloured metal spoon dug in. the men tucked in eagerly to their breakfast once everyone had a bowl, but Remus felt decidedly queasy, and after nibbling at the slop that not only looked like cement but tasted like it too, he felt he would rather go without, at least for the time being.

He threw his spoon back in the bowl and pushed it away from him, feeling sicker than ever. Bill Weasley, sat next to him, had already wolfed down most of his food as though he hadn't eaten for a good few days. He saw that Remus had pushed his bowl away, then caught his eye and looked from Remus to his deserted breakfast, silently questioning him. Remus gave a tiny nod of his head and Bill quickly and deftly swapped the bowls over, managing to do so without catching the attention of any of the Pickets.

Remus felt sick, in his head and his stomach, and he was tired as hell. It was all he could do to keep his eyes open and try to retain as many wits about him as he could. _Never forget, you're playing a dangerous game_. The words echoed in his head, but there was no way he could pay attention in that moment to anything other than his own physical being and the questions that had been raised after his conversation with Bill. What wouldn't Bill tell him? What secrets did this place hide?

After about an hour, or so it seemed to Remus (in reality it was probably a much shorter length of time), the Pickets deemed breakfast to be finished and they were escorted back to their dinging corridor, lined with even dingier cells.

But this time the Pickets did not go down the corridor. They waited until all the prisoners had passed the heavy door that guarded the cellblock, before slamming it shut and locking it, not only with a number of bolts and keys, but with jinxes and spells that would hold even experienced Aurors. Remus did not stop to listen to what they were; he would have other opportunities, plus there were more pressing things on his mind.

He turned to face Bill Weasley, but before he could say anything, Bill spoke.

'Thanks for breakfast,'

Remus was startled by the flat tone of his voice, and peering closely at the young man, was troubled by the seemingly dead look in his eyes and the bruises on his puffy skin.

'I … that's fine,' stuttered Remus, not knowing what to say. He paused, then said, 'I have some questions for you; I want to know what you meant last night. You said I'd be shocked, that you weren't the right person to explain it to me … I need to know what you meant.'

Bill ran his hands over the stubble that had grown on his chin. He supposed that this man had good reason to know everything, that he had a right to know the truth, but still … Bill wasn't involved in that story, how could he tell it?

'Look,' he started. 'This isn't going to be easy for you to take in. It's not easy for any of us to understand, but you …' he trailed off, shaking his head worriedly.

'What? Tell me!' Remus was starting to be severely worried by Bills attitude. 'If it's something important, I need to know!' Bill took a deep breath and began to speak, but over his shoulder Remus could see something that turned his stomach over, that made him feel even sicker than he already did, that caused rage to boil in his blood, and shook him to his very core. A man had emerged from the cell next to Remus', a man that Remus knew very well, and a man that he hated.

He took a step back.

'You!' he cried, pointing a finger at the figure. 'You bastard! You …'

But words had failed Remus.

The man at who he was pointing seemed almost as shocked as Remus did: his sunken face paled beneath long matted hair and he gripped the stone wall with long bony fingers for support.

'No,' croaked the man. 'I didn't … I could never …'

Remus moved, seemingly outside of himself and unaware of his actions; he took several steps forward, almost running, his fury clouding his vision and his mind, until he was standing directly in front of the man he hated so much, the man who had ruined so many lives because of the choices he had made. And he hit him, square in the jaw, with a clenched fist and as much power as he could muster. The man stumbled backwards, his hands over the lower part of his face, leaving his eyes clear so that Remus could see the dead look that was all that was left of the man who had once been his friend.

It only made Remus hate him even more.

'Please, Remus, it wasn't me! Let me explain, you have to understand!'

But Remus didn't want to understand. He didn't want to understand why this man had turned his back on the cause he had once fought for. He didn't want to understand why this man had betrayed the trust of so many people. He didn't want to understand why this man had sold out his supposed best friend and his wife.

He only wanted to make him hurt. Wanted to make him feel some small part of the pain they had all lived with for the past fourteen years.

He drew his arm back again, but before his fist could reconnect with its target, a hand closed around his elbow, preventing the blow.

'Wait, Remus,' said the level voice of Bill Weasley. 'Don't do something you'll regret. Why don't you listen …'

'Get off me!' cried Remus. He turned and looked fiercely into Bill's face. 'Don't you know who this is? This is _Sirius Black_, for crying out loud! This is the man who … who …' he took a deep, steadying breath. 'This is the man who crippled the Order. This is the man who killed my friends' son. _His_ _Godson_.'

He choked back a sob and turned away from Bill, but forced himself to look, instead, into the face of his one-time friend. Sirius was no longer handsome; his skin was now waxy and sunken, his eyes were devoid of any life or emotion, his hair was long, dirty and matted, and he was practically emaciated. It would've pained Remus to see him in this state, had Remus not thought he deserved it.

'No,' Sirius croaked. The voice was so quiet Remus barely heard it, but for effect it had Sirius could have shouted it directly into his ear.

'You deny it?' Remus asked, his voice low and deadly. 'You deny that your actions ruined our efforts to thwart Voldemort? You deny that your actions led to the death of Harry potter?'

'I … you don't know the whole story! It-'

'I don't need to know the whole story, I know enough. I know that Lily and James have had to live with the fact that their best friend killed their son all these years. Do _you know_ how hard that has been to live with? Of course you don't! You don't feel remorse; you've been living in Voldemort's pocket for more than fifteen years!'

But at these words something in Sirius broke, and he started to cry. Tears rolled out of his dead eyes down his sunken cheeks, sobs racking his skeletal figure. He slid down the wall and sat, hunched, rocking backwards and forwards on the balls of his feet.

Remus looked at the pitiful mess on the floor, but suddenly he wondered just _why_ a man who had been living in Voldemort's pocket was in this state, and come to think of it, why was he here? In prison … in Azkaban?

He paused. As much as he hated Black, as much as he desperately wanted to hurt him, perhaps Remus should let him explain, if only so that when Remus did kill this man, Sirius knew that he truly deserved it and that his one-time friend felt absolutely no remorse in revenge.

'Okay then, tell me the whole story. Tell me exactly why you became a traitorous, murderous bastard.'

'Perhaps we should get out of the corridor,' muttered Bill. Remus jumped, he had quite forgotten Bill was there. 'Sirius, come on, let me help you.' Bill placed his arms under Sirius's and gently heaved him into a standing position, guiding him through the door into the cell nearest them, avoiding Remus's eyes at all costs.

Remus, for one, was entirely confused by Bill's behaviour. Why would a decent (as far as Remus knew) bloke help this scum? Did he not understand the pain that one man had caused to everyone who knew the Potters? So it was with some trepidation that Remus followed Sirius and Bill into the cell, not knowing what was about to happen. Every fibre of his body was screaming at him, telling him it was a bad idea for him to be in an enclosed space with a murderer, but still something compelled him; a notion of finally being able to understand _why_.

Bill had seated Sirius on the bench at the back of the cell, leaving Remus no choice but to stand, as there was no way he was going to sit next to the man he hated.

'Well?' he spat.

Sirius looked like he was about to be sick. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, before finally managing to whisper.

'It wasn't me,'

His voice was low and soft; it was the sound of a broken man. Yet he spoke the words with conviction, and his dark, dead eyes bore straight into Remus's.

'What?'

'It wasn't me. I wasn't the Secret Keeper. Well, I mean, I was, but it wasn't me.'

'I'm sorry?'

'James and Lily were all set to use me as their Secret Keeper, but I was captured a few days before we were due to perform the Fidelius Charm. The Death Eaters … they came to my house, and Voldemort showed up. We fought.'

Remus was now listening with rapt attention. He would have said this story was utter madness – he himself had seen Sirius in the days leading up to the attack, he _knew_ he hadn't been captured – but there was something in Sirius's face, something in the way he was wringing his hands, something in the way he was shaking from head to toe, that told Remus that he should listen.

'I tried my best, but it was ten to one, what could I do? I think I took a couple of them out, but it wasn't enough. They Stunned me, and when I woke up I was in the dungeons at Lucius Malfoy's manor. And Peter … Peter was _there_ Remus, it was _him_, he was the traitor we had been looking for! He took some of my hair, and using the Polyjuice Potion he became me! Of course it had to be someone who knew Lily and James well, so that he would be believable as me …' Sirius was speaking rapidly now; he looked slightly deranged, clutching at his long matted hair. 'So Peter, as me, became the Secret Keeper. But,' and he laughed, a sound so alien it startled Remus. 'But, the thing is, _it was all part of the plan! _They never intended to kill Lily or James, or even Harry! They just wanted to hit them where it hurt! By revealing _me_ as the traitor!'

'Lily and James knew that their Secret Keeper-' Remus stopped and shook his head. 'They knew that _you_ had betrayed them. They were forewarned by one of Dumbledore's spies.'

'And why do you think they were given that warning? Because Voldemort didn't want to kill Harry! At least, not at that point, he knew what it would do to him. Instead, Peter was able to move closer to Lily and James, able to pass more information to Voldemort about them. It was the perfect ruse! And then, three years later, a Death Eater, disguised as me, was able to attack them and their family, and take Harry away from them.

'But it was never me Remus, it was never me. You have to understand. I would never have sold them to Voldemort. I would rather have _died_ than betray my best friend.'

Something in Sirius was broken, Remus could see that. Sirius choked and put his head in his hands. Remus was struggling to comprehend what Sirius had just told him. Part of him wanted to believe that Sirius was the evil one; it was so much easier when you had someone to hate, but on the other hand, something was nagging at him, filling him with doubt … he couldn't help but start to believe the truth in what Sirius was saying.

'So, it was the other way round,' Remus murmured. 'It was the other way to what we thought! And, I suppose, when Peter finally cornered you - or the Death Eater pretending to be you – that was staged? You didn't blow him to smithereens, did you?'

'Of course I didn't! Not that I wouldn't if I ever got the chance mind you,' growled Sirius. He looked back up at Remus. 'He's not dead, you know. He wasn't killed on that day. He's still a Death Eater.' He blinked and looked away again.

'You … you're telling the truth,'

Sirius nodded.

'And you've been here all this time? For fourteen years?'

'Well, not quite here. Voldemort didn't take over Azkaban until eight years ago, did he? I was moved around a lot, we all were. It's been horrible, Remus. At times I felt like giving up … I know I'm never going to get out of here, I'm never going to have a chance to explain to James …'

Sirius trailed off. It occurred to Remus then that this was not the Sirius he had once known. They had all changed, they weren't the same people they had been fifteen years ago, and some things were irreparably damaged, with no hope of them ever being mended.

'But what brings you here anyway, Remus? Taking a nice little break?'

'Something like that,' Remus muttered. He didn't want to say anything else.

'How is everyone? How's the war going?'

'Oh you know, we're trying our best. Things have been hard recently, we've lost some good people.'

How surreal it was, to be having a conversation with this man! To be talking quite rationally, when just a few minutes ago Remus wished he could've torn his one-time-friend apart from the inside.

'Perhaps I should leave you two to catch up,' Bill said quietly. Remus had quite forgotten he was there. Bill nodded his goodbye to both of them, and apparently content that neither was going to try and kill the other, took his leave.

Remus ran his hands through his greying hair down to the stubble around his chin. Sirius was still surveying him somewhat wearily from his position on the bench, as though he didn't quite share Bill's view on how safe it was to be left alone with Remus. But Remus held out his hand and pulled Sirius into an embrace, reminding both men that they had once been brothers, how much each had lost, and how much they all had to gain.

'You're looking old, Remus,' Sirius cracked. 'Look at all these grey hairs!'

'Well, at least my hair is a respectable length. You're beginning to look like Hagrid!' Sirius chuckled at this statement.

'How long have you been here?'

'Oh, about three days I think, though I've only spent one night in a cell. Where have you been? You weren't at breakfast were you?'

'No, I've been in isolation,' Sirius replied, and for the first time he almost smiled, though his eyes remained the same. 'Some things never change.'

Remus frowned. 'What did you do?'

'That,' Sirius sighed, 'is a very long story.'

'Another thing that hasn't changed,'

They sat in a silence that wasn't entirely uncomfortable for a moment or two, each digesting the past few minutes. Eventually, Sirius spoke.

'How are Lily and James? And the family?'

'They're fine, well enough, I suppose. I can't believe how quickly the children are growing up. Obviously there are hard times for them all. They still miss Harry terribly, even though it's been so long. Lily visits his grave weekly.' Remus looked sombre.

'Ah, I have to tell you about that,' Sirius said quietly. Remus's head snapped up. 'You see, the thing is, when Voldemort was finally able to get his hands on Harry when he was four, he didn't kill him, like the world believes.

'Harry is alive, Remus, and he's in here.'

* * *

A/N: Thanks for reading, and thank you to my 2 reviewers! Apologies for not updating, but you know, last year of university … got a lot on my plate! Anywho, if you enjoyed this chapter, please review. And if you didn't enjoy it, please review. I need to learn somehow! 


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